


My Child

by SwoodMaxProductions



Category: Dead Cells (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Fainting, Found Family, Fuck the King, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Death, Injury, Kind of a character study, Muteness, Pain, Spoilers, Touch-Starved, Whump, blob adoption, emotional support fungi, the Alchemist had a family, the Beheaded/Prisoner might be rough around the edges but he’s a good person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26574841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwoodMaxProductions/pseuds/SwoodMaxProductions
Summary: In which the Beheaded is in need of physical healing, the Collector is in need of emotional healing, and comfort is received on both ends.
Relationships: The Collector & the Beheaded
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	My Child

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Kill, Heal, Rest, Repeat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19366195) by [TomDuggerbug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomDuggerbug/pseuds/TomDuggerbug). 



> YEAH IT’S ANOTHER ONE
> 
> DEAD CELLS DEAD CELLS DEAD CELLS I GOT A NEW FANDOM BABEY

The Collector’s talons clicked against the stone floor. He focused on the sound of his pacing. Not the memories that haunted him.

It was to save everyone. He did what had to be done to stop the Malaise. But he didn’t stop it, did he? All of the hellish screams of the test subjects, all the lives lost. It had all been in vain. But… if he didn’t… the King… the King would…

Oh, Marcia! He was protecting her, protecting their children…!

Lyssa… Emilia… Montgomery… Should he have refused and given them a swift death by the King’s executioners, rather than the slow, gruesome fate that awaited them…?

He had to finish. He had to create the Panacea. Then, and only then, with hope for the future secured, could he finally die.

The Collector was wrenched from the spiral of his guilt and despair by the heavy thud of a body hitting the door. Something was off. Opening the door, the Collector was immediately greeted by the Prisoner falling into his arms.

He was badly wounded, great gashes through his undead flesh, oozing a murky blood that no doubt was also bleeding the essence of the amorphous creature within. The blue-tinged, calloused hands of an unfortunate laborer clutched desperately at him, a silent scream of agony in the Prisoner’s eye.

“Prisoner, what…? Here, let me—“

He ushered the injured entity inside, scrambling for whatever supplies he could to patch up his prodigal creation. He knew what was happening to the Prisoner, yes, but to see it in person, to see the wounds, to see every twitch and spasm of pain in the deafening silence… it almost hurt  _ him, _ as well. 

“I… I’ll try to be as gentle as possible…”

The being nodded. The Collector began stitching the poor creature up, feeling him tremble in pain, without even a voice to cry out. 

“I know… I know…” he whispered to him.

His words were met with a gaze full of both surprise and undeniable gratitude.

It was ironic, wasn’t it? The vessel that had been so carefully crafted for the King was now a creature with a mind of its own, and one that was the exact opposite of the man it was intended to host.

Where the King was cold and distant, the Prisoner was animated and curious. Where the King was cruel, the Prisoner was a kind soul, eager to help and interact with what few survivors they could find. He had outright  _ adopted _ a small mushroom creature, and the sight of him happily petting its cap breathed more life into the Collector’s will to live. And where the King was pompous, megalomaniacal, and grandiose, the Prisoner was a humble creature, mute, barefoot and ragged, a ragdoll in the Collector’s arms as he carried him to the healing reservoirs he kept.

He watched the shadowy substance that constituted his “head” drain the liquid from the tank, his body sagging against the Collector in relief. The Collector, in turn, gently stroked the back of the stump of his neck, trying to provide what little comfort he could. With the tank emptied, the homunculus blinked up at him, once, twice— and then his single eye fell shut, rolling up as it closed in an unmistakable sign that the Prisoner had finally fainted. 

The Collector continued to hold the limp body, not wanting to break his contact with the artificial warrior. He tried not to think of how reminded he was of the nights all those years ago when his darling children would fall asleep on his lap. But ultimately, he couldn’t put the connection out of his mind.

The Prisoner was made by him. In a way, the gooey entity was another of his children. A child in need of comfort. A son. With his help, change and hope might yet come to the island.

“Rest, my child. Rest and heal…”


End file.
